by Marie Hall
Something about the placement of the home struck him as odd almost immediately. It seemed to have an isolated feel to it. Even though there were plenty of homes along this street, humans mingled on lawns and in shop fronts, but all of them seemed to keep their distance from this house in particular.
As though there was an invisible barrier surrounding it. The home was pretty, he supposed, so far as human dwellings went. But all the eyes staring on—and there were many—seemed to glower, not at him, but at the house itself.
Shrugging the thoughts off as little more than fancy, Rumpel licked his front teeth. He’d tasked Aeric with searching out the names on his list, and now Rumpel was down to the last three out of fifty. To say he was feeling disgustingly dejected would only be putting it mildly.
Maintaining this calm façade was far from easy; if he didn’t find the one soon he’d be sorely tempted to begin a reign of death and bloodshed the likes of which Kingdom had never known before. He was a man not to be trifled with, ever. One foul, bloody decision eons ago shouldn’t continue to cost him as it did. For a man of his power, being so bloody powerless was a sensation he was not familiar with and did not relish.
A small boy played beside the stoop that led into the house. His head jerked up at the sound of Rumpel’s motorcycle. The child stood and walked up the front of the hedge. He couldn’t have been older than ten, maybe twelve. With a thick head of blond curls and deep brown eyes, he didn’t appear to be in the least bit afraid as he stood there waiting for him to approach.
It wasn’t uncommon for a child to show no fear of him. Usually only adults cared about such things as rumors and innuendos. Pulling up beside the curb, he killed the engine, giving Genesis a final pat to her chrome tank before sliding off. She purred beneath his touch.
“Boy.” He jerked his head at the door. “Where is your father?”
“My name is Briley, and he’s not home,” he said in an even, measured tone, curiosity flitting briefly through his eyes when he turned his stare briefly at the bike. Then he blinked and his lips turned down. “But I don’t think you’re here for my daddy, because Daddy would have told me about you, Rumpelstiltskin.”
Shocked at the perceptiveness of the boy, Rumpel frowned. Only briefly, mind you. It was rare that he was taken aback by someone, especially a youngster.
But there was something about the child, a mannerism that was just slightly odd. Not bad. Just different. A slope to his eyes, a sort of perpetual youthfulness about him that hid a keen intellect.
“You’re not from here, are you?” Rumpel asked, studying the boy.
Briley toyed with a red petal. “Kingdom, you mean?”
“Aye.” Rumpel walked closer, noting the boy’s scrubbed-and-polished appearance, the well-pressed blue shirt and tan shorts. He was a well-cared-for child and clearly much beloved.
“Nah.” He shook his head, riffling fingers through his hair. “Well…” He shrugged and giggled. “I came here a long time ago with my Aunt Betty and Uncle Gerard, but I was born in a place called Miss-ouri.” He stressed the word as if he had to taste it through to pronounce it correctly.
“Earth. Indeed.” He smiled. “Well then, Briley, it is good to meet you. Might I come in?”
“No.” He shook his head swiftly. “And don’t bother trying to come in without permission because Uncle Gerard made a witch cast a spell on this bush so that it would rip someone to smithereens if they tried.” His smile was sweet and innocent and Rumpel’s lips twitched.
The child amused him.
“Briley!” a female’s voice cried out. “Get away from him. What are you doing here?” A raven-haired beauty came trampling down the steps, latching her hands onto the child’s shoulder and dragging him swiftly to her side.
Her eyes were a deep, chocolate brown and were easily seen behind a horrid pair of owl-shaped lenses. She shoved at the sweaty strands of hair clinging to her forehead, tucking it behind her ears. Her body was slim but strong. Tanned calves peeked out from beneath the long hem of her gauzy day dress. She dressed in a rather matronly fashion for one so young, but she’d do in a pinch he supposed.
“Well?” Her nostrils flared as she glared prettily. “You have ten seconds to answer me before I get my husband to toss you square on your ass!”
Hiding his disappointment that she was not Shayera, although clearly the mother, he recovered quickly enough. “Ah, Ms. Caron, I take it.” He held out his hand and waited for her to take it.
Instead she glared at it, then back at him. “I know who you are, Rumpelstiltskin,” she said in a tone laced with frost. “Danika told us you might come. Briley…” She looked down at the boy. “Go along inside and play with your cousin.” She patted his cheek with obvious fondness, but the moment the boy skipped away, she was once again the furious mama bear.
“Of course she did.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not exactly sure what that bug told you…”
“You’d dare to insult my friend and then come here and think I will… what?” she snapped, tossing up her hands. “Just hand you my daughter? You must be touched in the head.”
Finally, the man of the hour came tromping down the steps, obviously alerted by the sounds of his wife’s squawking. Gerard was a thickly built man, much broader than Rumpel himself, but size could be misleading.
Well… depending on what one was referring to, of course.
The infamous lothario—who was now apparently reformed—draped a protective arm across his Chihuahua of a wife and glared black daggers at Rumpel. “Rumpelstiltskin,” he growled with such a strong French accent that Rumpel knew the man was shaken.
Curling his nose with disdain, the Frenchman glared at him. Undeterred, Rumpel glanced between him and his wife. “You know why I’m here. I can either do this outside, or we can speak in private. Your choice.”
Gerard wanted to pretend his indifference, but the slight uptilt to his jaw and the quiver of his pinky finger spoke volumes. He worried about what exactly Rumpel meant to say. What secrets he would spill in front of his dear wife. How pathetically funny. Rumpel would have sworn the first time he’d met Gerard that he’d never see the day the man cared for anything more than his long list of conquests.
Chuckling, Rumpel shook his head. “Oh, my dear woman.” He turned to Betty. “I fear your husband has been greatly remiss in sharing our truths.” Whirling back to Gerard, he smirked. “Have you not, Caron?”
Clenching his lips, Gerard jerked his head toward the house. “Let’s take this inside, demon.”
He was no demon, and yet everyone insisted on calling him that. It’d ceased ruffling his feathers several hundred years ago.
“Yes, let’s,” Rumpel agreed and the thorny rose hedge parted as if by magic—which it obviously was, clearly Briley had not been lying—to allow him safe entrance.
Betty clutched at Gerard’s hand. “What’s going on, honey?”
He shook his head. “Not out here,” he whispered.
“Embarrassed about me, Caron, are you?” He chuckled. “Afraid the world might know you’ve gotten yourself entangled with the devil himself?”
Hissing, Gerard spun on his heel. His broad chest heaved as he glowered at Rumpel. “Do not make me regret inviting you inside. I should rip you limb from limb for daring to intrude upon the sanctity of my—”
“Blah, blah, blah.” Rumpel made the hand motion to indicate someone blathering on, and then with a flourish stepped to the side so that Betty could walk up the steps before him. “After you.”
“Ugh!” She growled, shoved into his shoulder, and stomped up the steps.
Lips twitching, Rumpel rubbed his shoulder as if she’d wounded him. “When a man tries to be gallant, women cry foul and call us misogynistic; when we make you open your own door, you scream that chivalry is dead. I confess I do not understand the opposite sex sometimes.”
Betty slammed the door behind her, shutting both him and Gerard out. Turning to him, the burly Frenchman shook
his head. “Leave her out of this,” he said. “I do not know what you’re about, but spare her the humiliation at the very least.”
Holding up his hands, Rumpel shrugged. “I had no intentions of dragging her into it, though I doubt she’ll be content to let you have the ultimate choice in the matter as the situation is a rather sensitive one.”
Hand on the knob, Gerard looked as though he wished to say more, but with a hard jerk of his head, he opened his home to him.
The inside of the house was as handsomely appointed as the exterior and filled with blond, burnished wood floors and furniture that was designed to be comfortable as opposed to opulent. A crackling fire burned in the hearth, and lavender and other flowers hung drying upside down from the rafters above them. In short, it was a home built with love and made to be lived in.
“I’m in the kitchen, Gerard,” Betty cried out from the next room in a voice that still bore a tinge of exasperation.
Gerard led the way and gave his wife a chaste peck on the cheek before sitting at the carved wooden eating table. He gestured at the seat in front of him. “Sit,” he said with lifted brow, never taking his eyes off Rumpel.
Taking a seat, Rumpel watched as Betty busied herself pouring steaming water from a black iron kettle into three mugs. No one said anything as she added a spoonful of sugar and a squeeze of lemon to each cup. The aromatic fragrance of Earl Gray tea filled the quaint space. The kitchen, just as the rest of what he’d seen, had a homey, lived-in feel to it.
The cabinets were whitewashed and distressed, and a black baker’s rack was full of bowls brimming over with apples and large loaves of bread. A thick wedge of yellow cheese, still partly dipped in wax, sat on the counter. Clearly he’d interrupted lunch.
A mug was shoved into his hands. He looked up.
“Here,” Betty said without any attempt at civility, a fact he was oddly grateful for. Usually he was greeted either with fear or extreme obeisance, both of which disgusted him. He preferred truth every time.
“Thank you.” Inclining his head, he used the silver-handled spoon on the table to stir the sugar. “Don’t worry, I won’t take up much of your time.”
Betty sat on Gerard’s lap, eyeing him over the rim of her mug as she sipped at it.
“So speak.” Gerard tapped his fingers on the table, ignoring the tea Betty had set before him.
Even knowing this wasn’t a social call, Rumpel took a sip of tea and moaned in appreciation of the robust and citrusy quality of it. After a moment, he shrugged. “I’m here for your daughter.”
“I’m just sure you are, you sonofabitch.” Betty slammed her mug down, sloshing the contents onto the tabletop. Patting her knee softly, Gerard took the mug from her clenched hand and took a swallow from it himself.
“Mm. Yes.” Rumpel thinned his lips. “I know this is messy and probably not at all what you expected, but I’m here to collect.”
Now it was Gerard’s turn to lean forward. “I’m no fool, imp. I understood what I signed years ago would someday be called due, I get that. But how could you possibly believe I’d be willing to give you my daughter? My contract stated—”
“Yes, yes.” Rumpel waved his hand. “That in exchange for my causing several highly influential and powerful patrons of a one Madam Flurry to forget you’d ever bedded her, you’d swear a single day of fealty to me. Semantics.”
“Semantics!” Betty pounded her fists on the table. “Okay, one, I was pissed at Gerard for not telling me about that deal.” She gave her mate a withering glare before inhaling deeply and patting her chest. “But considering the fact that he did that with you fifty-two years before he met me, I can hardly hold it against him. However, the contract’s terms are explicit; he is the one who owes you a day of fealty, not Shayera.”
Gerard’s nostrils flared as he jerked his head emphatically at his wife’s proclamation. “Correct, mon ange.” He stroked her back, which seemed to have an instant and calming effect on his wife. “I will not fight my fate. An oath taken with you is sealed in blood. I’ll do as you bid for one day and one day only, and my daughter stays out of this.”
Narrowing his eyes, Rumpel sensed rather than saw that an entirely different set of eyes was watching him. Betty’s head jerked up at the same moment, and just as he was about to turn in his seat to look for who it was, she hissed out, “Get back upstairs!”
A feminine gasp was all he heard before agile footsteps scurried off.
He sighed. “Is that how it’s going to be then?”
“That is how it’s going to be.” Gerard nodded in agreement.
Gods, he hated when his patrons decided to develop a backbone. “Fine.” He flicked his fingers, calling forth the dagger of fury. “Kill yourself then.”
Betty gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. Gerard’s jaw set and his breathing ratcheted up several notches.
The dagger was the length of Rumpel’s forearm and gleamed like molten steel. Handing the diamond-encrusted hilt to Gerard, Rumpel shrugged. “Well?”
“You can’t possibly be serious?” Betty’s eyes glimmered.
“It is a pity that a woman’s tears simply do not move me.” Rumpel frowned. “I can assure you, I am quite serious.”
Betty smacked Gerard’s hand as he reached for the blade. “How dare you!” she cried, looking not at Rumpelstiltskin but at her husband.
Again Rumpel felt the press of eyes upon him. This time he was fairly certain that the eyes belonged to none other than Shayera. Standing, he pushed the chair in before crossing his arms over his chest.
“Go ahead, take your time,” he said. “I can wait for you to decide.”
Snarling, Betty stabbed her finger in his direction. “You shut the hell up. And you!” She twirled that finger on Gerard, poking him hard in the chest with it. “No way.”
Gripping his hair, Gerard shook his head. “Do not worry, Betty, I will not let my death cause yours. Rumpel, can you sever our ties of Veritas if I do it?”
“What!” Betty shrieked.
“Yes, I suppose I could.” He stared at his fingers with a bored expression, taking several incremental steps back as he inched toward the kitchen partition, determined to discover just who it was lurking in shadow.
“It’s the only way, Betty.” Gerard shook his head. “He cannot have her.”
“No, Gerard, no.” She shook her head and there was no more fight in her. Her voice shook as she rested her hands on the sides of his jaw. “There has to be another way.”
Rumpel chuckled. “I can assure there’s not. His death or the girl. Your choice. And do hurry, for the clock is ticking.”
“No!” a dulcet voice screamed, followed a second later by a body barreling into the room.
All the air was jerked from him when the female flew inside. She was slight, not very tall, but she had an overwhelming presence. Something magnetic, almost larger than life, that demanded one take notice of her despite the homely way in which she was dressed. The blush of womanhood stained her swanlike neck. Dressed in a gown made of literal burlap, it was hard to determine just how she was proportioned since the fabric covered her from ankle to neck. A fiery mane of wild red curls cascaded around her slender shoulders. Hypnotic aquamarine eyes seemed to pierce through Rumpel’s very soul. Her cheeks were dirt smudged and there was a smell about her, not entirely unpleasant, but different. The girl was trying to keep from being noticed.
But he noticed her. A smile gripped him as his body buzzed with the faint stirrings of something he’d not felt in a very long time.
“I will do it,” she said. “I will go.”
Shayera swallowed hard, refusing to even glance back at the blond-haired, freakishly handsome man standing in her parents’ kitchen.
“Shy, I don’t think—” Her mother’s eyes were wide and she was coming to her daughter to either shake her or hug her, Shayera wasn’t really sure which.
“No.” She held up her hand, warding off her mother. “No. I’m nineteen. I’m a w
oman and legally able to make up my mind to leave.”
“Shayera!” her father snapped in that strong, no-nonsense voice of his. The one she’d grown up hearing whenever she or her little cousin Briley did something naughty, like filch one of her mom’s costumes to play dress-up. “You will show your mother some respect.”
Crossing her arms, she was viscerally aware of the infamous, sexy, and deranged man staring daggers at her, probably wondering what she was doing hiding beneath the burlap sack. Oh, gods if that man only knew what kind of trouble he was asking for by requesting she go with him.
“Daddy, I love you. But I’m not going to stand by and let you die just to preserve your strange sense of honor.” Squaring her shoulders, she finally turned to glare at the blond-headed demigod. “What do you plan to do with me, Rumpelstiltskin?”
His smile grew slowly, like the gentle unfurling of a flower to the sun’s morning rays. Her stomach quivered. The man was potent, so different from the boys of her village who’d with one breath hurl insults and cast stones at her and with the next would beg her to come and give them just a taste of her forbidden charms.
“Well.” He took a step closer and the air between them grew charged and thick, causing her breathing to be just a smidge faster. “I reckon you’ll have to come and see for yourself. But I can vow to you and your parents that I personally mean you no harm.”
“Personally mean no harm.” Gerard scoffed. “Interesting way of wording it, demon.”
Rumpel shrugged and made to reach for her.
His hand stretched out, coming so close to grazing her dress that her heart beat a rapid, staccato boom in her throat. Just as he made to slide his fingers through her hair, she jerked back. If she’d been a cat she might have hissed.
Her parents screamed and jumped in front of her, shielding Shayera from the liquid amber eyes that suddenly gleamed with curiosity and fascination.
“Get back.” Her mother lifted a finger and shoved it just below Rumpel’s face. “Don’t touch her.”
“Interesting.” The imp smirked. “And why not?”